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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25891972">A Determined Temperament</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/clear_as_starlight/pseuds/clear_as_starlight'>clear_as_starlight</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bisexual Alexander Hamilton, Body Dysphoria, Brief Reference To Suicidal Thoughts, Canon Era, Gay John Laurens, Historical Inaccuracy, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Injuries, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Self-Hatred, Trans Male Character, bit of religious chat, but its the 1700s and people don't understand, mentions of hanging, probably like my american history knowledge is shaky, trans character is OC</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:13:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,663</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25891972</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/clear_as_starlight/pseuds/clear_as_starlight</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was blessed to be born with a determined temperament; one that would not accept my mother’s assertation of my being a member of the fairer sex, no matter how many times it was forced upon me."</p><p>John Laurens meets someone who  understands how conflicted he feels in himself, and in his relationship with Hamilton; how the darkness and fear in his soul is reflected in how society understands men such as he.</p><p>"What you share with him is pure, and good, and I refuse to allow you to think otherwise.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Misunderstanding</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey there! This is a random fic I wrote purely for my own self-indulgence, combining my interest in the American revolutionary war as a non-American, with my interest in gender, sex and sexuality as understood (and misunderstood) throughout history, and my newly found love of Hamilton now that I can actually watch it in my country. If any of those things pique your interest, go ahead! Keeping in mind the historical context means that people are misgendered and asked about their dead name, there is (fairly mild) period-typical homophobic/transphobic thoughts/words and a little eighteenth century sexism. Most of the more serious tags relate to chapter 2, but I figured I'd give a heads up. Bonus though, there's some actual Lams fluff in it as well :) Let me know if anything else should be tagged!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens watches Alexander Hamilton reluctantly lift a hunk of meat—if it can even be called that, for who knows what it truly once was—to his mouth. He shoots a small, private grin across the aide-de-camp’s office in the headquarters of Valley Forge, and smirks slightly as Hamilton—<em>his</em> Hamilton—rolls his eyes. Likely, were in not for Laurens’ insistence this evening, Hamilton would be forgoing yet another meal without even realising it.</p><p>Hamilton murmurs something, a softly amused expression in his usually fiery eyes. Laurens decides he is in the mood to tease.</p><p>“What was that, Hamilton?”</p><p>The other aides in the room—Meade and Tilghman—glance up. Meade puts down his quill, slight look of relief crossing his face. Laurens knows he always finds any sort of banter pleasing, and they all need a break, sometimes.</p><p>A time to forget the blistering cold and unending melancholy that pervades the entire camp at present.</p><p>“Yes, pray tell, what leaves your disagreeable mouth today, Hammie?”</p><p>Hamilton shoots an unimpressed glare at Meade. Laurens knows he is not overly fond of this <em>Hammie</em> nickname that Meade has settled on.</p><p>“I were speaking to Laurens.”</p><p>Tilghman joins in, now. “It seems that Laurens did not hear you, and now his query becomes the room’s.”</p><p>Hamilton sighs theatrically, a strand of his beautiful red hair falling in his eyes. “I say only that missing meals at this moment does little, since the food all tastes of nothing.”</p><p>Meade chuckles. “Ah, but though its taste be nothing, its sustenance is not. And at the rate you write, Little lion, meals ought never be missed.”</p><p>Another nickname Hamilton finds condescending, Laurens knows, though he likes Meade well enough to leave it, for now.</p><p>“I have not been missing meals regularly,” Hamilton points out, quill raised in a pointed gesture. “For quite a while now. Not until this week, for the food has forgotten it ought to have taste.”</p><p>Tilghman nods. “Indeed it has, though I think we grew too spoiled?”</p><p>“Oh?” interjects Meade.</p><p>“Indeed,” Laurens manages to throw into the conversation. “I concur with Tilghman.”</p><p>“And how do you suppose that?” Meade is playfully indignant. “Is it spoiled to expect food to have a taste attached?”</p><p>Laurens shakes his head. “Not on principle. However—”</p><p>Tilghman cuts him off. “However, prior to the marvellous Captain Ellis, you ought to remember tasteless slop was our regular fare. Your memory fades quickly, Meade. Are you sure your advancing age is not interfering?”</p><p>Meade balls up and throws a spoiled paper at Tilghman’s head, which he easily evades. “You are two years my elder, Tilghman!”</p><p>Laurens coughs out a laugh. “Perhaps the distinguished elderly gentlemen in the room can both agree we are blessed with the arrival of Captain Ellis, and now we sorely miss his expertise.”</p><p>Hamilton chuckles openly. “I think I shall use the elderly gentleman descriptor from now, though distinguished is far too complimentary. Yes, the Old Secretary and his Elderly Gentleman.”</p><p>Meade huffs. “Were Harrison present to hear you, he would cuff you round the head, Hammie. You know how he despises that name.”</p><p>Hamilton only gets a look in his eye that Laurens associates with spontaneous trouble.</p><p>“Hamilton—” Laurens starts.</p><p>Hamilton shoots him a wide grin, hair reminiscent of fire in the candlelight. “Even so, is it a perfectly fitting moniker.”</p><p>Tilghman rolls his eyes. “And if we the elderly gentleman, what of you and Laurens?”</p><p>Hamilton smirks. “We are the young fair bachelors among the General’s sadly aging aide-de-camps.” He winks at Laurens, who tries not to blush, because he knows what Hamilton truly insinuates by this—<em>images of Hamilton, swollen kissed lips and darkened eyes watching, hand in Laurens’ hair</em>—</p><p>Laurens clears his throat, and rapidly takes a bite of his own meal. Before Meade or Tilghman can make a retort, he quickly swerves back to the matter at hand. “I do concede the meal is tasteless.”</p><p>“Much like Hamilton,” quips Meade.</p><p>Hamilton feigns outrage, and Laurens forces his eyes to his unfinished letters until his cheeks lose their heat, and his heart stops racing.</p><p>“Praise to Captain Ellis,” Tilghman agrees. “Let him return to us unharmed.”</p><p>Meade nods. “If our Captain is not returned to us, I may well yet begin to miss meals as Hamilton does. That man is an unlikely genius.”</p><p>Laurens murmurs his agreement, and thinks of Captain Isaac Ellis.</p><p>It is perhaps only a month, a month and a half, since the Captain joined them from the lower ranks. Originally promoted from Lieutenant to assist Captain Gibbs with the household accounts and provisions as Gibbs works simultaneously at that and as a supplementary aide-de-camp, his culinary expertise quickly became legendary amongst the aide-de-camps of Washington’s office. Though not an aide-de-camp himself, Ellis is often quartered with them as he works the accounts, and he had been unimpressed with the quality of the food.</p><p>Laurens remembers Meade explaining that what little there is to go around is bland and unvaried by necessity, and Ellis had quipped that did not mean it needed to be inedible as well.</p><p>The next evening, the small portion of meat had been miraculously seasoned, and even the beans had seemed less banal, though little could be done about the hardtack but to dip it in water or rum, Ellis had conceded.</p><p>When pressed, he admitted to miraculously using plants from the surrounding frozen forest to season the food, and the other aides had been suitably impressed by his knowledge.</p><p>Laurens too, for though he has always had a keen interest in flora, fauna and medicinals, he would not have been able to identify and use any plants in the area in such a way, especially being so far North of his South Carolinian learning.</p><p>When asked quietly about his knowledge and expertise by Hamilton over fireside drinks one evening, Ellis had said only: “My mother had four sons older than me and no daughters; I was a help to her.”</p><p>Whilst not unusual in itself, Hamilton had theorised to Laurens that this indicated a less than ample upbringing, if the mother required a son’s help in the kitchen, rather than a slave or a maid.</p><p>Laurens had only agreed, knowing how Hamilton might insinuate this from his experience, and understanding his dear boy’s own reticence in discussing his similarly lacking childhood.</p><p>Across the room, Tilghman glances up again, ready to restart the conversation, it seems.<br/>
“When was Captain Ellis to return?”</p><p>Meade puts his quill down once more, shaking his ink pot gently, which sounds rather close to empty. “This evening or tomorrow, I believe.”</p><p>Owing to his suddenly discovered botanical skills, the General had enquired if Ellis’ abilities extended beyond simple foraging and into forest craft—scouting, tracking and the like. It turned out it did, another mystery to tease apart from the young Captain’s past.</p><p>And so, he had ridden off five days previous with a scouting group, searching for possible places to acquire desperately needed provisions, of both the food and weaponry sort.</p><p>Hamilton sighs. “I hope he has kept safe, for I am beginning to despair of food so bland as this once more.”</p><p>Laurens huffs. “I hope he has kept safe for his own sake, not just your stomach, Hamilton.”</p><p>Hamilton pulls a mock affronted face, then smirks. “Indeed, for there are many ladies—and men—I am sure would mourn the spoiling of such a pretty face.”</p><p>It can shock those who have never heard such before, but Hamilton’s relentless temperament to tease and flirt is renowned amongst the aides, and though Laurens knows it is mostly a front, it still provides endless entertainment.</p><p>He feels slightly jealous though, but this is squashed down, and then eased by one soft, small, secret smile sent his way; a smile that says <em>Pay my untempered tongue no mind, John, for you know that I am yours</em>, as Alexander has murmured many such sentiments into his flushed skin, breath warm.</p><p>Meade, meanwhile, having created another unlikely projectile, now launches the empty ink pot at Hamilton, who catches it with a wounded smirk. “Watch your tongue Hammie. I’ll not have you soiling poor Ellis’ virtue in his absence.”</p><p>“I would never,” exclaims Hamilton in a taunting tone. “His good looks achieve that themselves on the common soldiers’ gossiping tongues.”</p><p>“Hamilton!” exclaims Tilghman. “Enough now. The common soldier may behave that way, but not us.”</p><p>Hamilton shrugs, as if to say <em>If you believe that, you are a fool</em>, but does not elaborate further.</p><p>Laurens’ mind flits to Baron von Steuben and his aides, and wonders what Tilghman would say if Laurens was to openly discuss it.</p><p>Steuben is tolerated by those who know, precisely because he is <em>not</em> a common soldier.</p><p>In any case, none such conversation solves the food issue.</p><p>Another thought seems to have entered Meade’s head, and Laurens reluctantly concedes they are unlikely to finish much more work tonight, distracted and exhausted as they have all become. Except perhaps Hamilton, but his brain works at twice the speed of anyone else’s.</p><p>“If you two fair bachelors,” Meade snorts sceptically, “And we elderly gents—presuming that includes Fitzgerald as well—and Harrison Old Secretary, what of Gibbs?”</p><p>Hamilton does not look up from his correspondence, so Laurens engages. “Gibbs? Surely he is an elderly gent too, if this be the classification system.”</p><p>Meade shrugs a shoulder. “And Ellis?”</p><p>Tilghman looks up. “Are we not classifying aides? Captain Ellis, despite his many commendable qualities, is not an aide.”</p><p>“True,” concedes Meade. “But irrelevant to this game. He sits in this room, therefore he is included. What say you, Laurens?”</p><p>“Cook?” suggests Hamilton, before Laurens can make any such suggestion.</p><p>Meade shakes his head. “Nay, that provides no amusement.”</p><p>“In any case,” Laurens points out. “He is not the cook; he compliments our food out of his own precious time, but he cooks not for anyone else.”</p><p>Hamilton manages to continue writing and engage in the conversation, somehow. “I know not then. Child?”</p><p>Meade explodes into laughter. “And how old be you, Hamilton? Twenty-one? I think Ellis twenty-two at least.”</p><p>Hamilton does look up now, slight irritation shining in his eyes. His tempers are hard to predict, but his age and experience, or presumed lack thereof, however inaccurate, Laurens knows to be a trigger. “I do not know, Meade.” His tone is sharp. “Pansy? Molly?”</p><p>There is an uncomfortable silence, then Laurens pins Hamilton with a frown, stomach churning. “That is malicious, Hamilton, and unkind slander.”</p><p>Hamilton looks up, raises his hands, suddenly seeming to realise he teases too far. His eyes plead apology to Laurens. “I am sorry, gentlemen. I only jest, but I am tired and it comes out harsher than I intend. Truly, Captain Ellis is a fine man. I meant no offence.”</p><p>Laurens knows Hamilton only jests, but he has himself been called <em>pansy</em> and <em>molly</em> many a time, once by his own father, and so the words still cut deeper than they should, no matter how many times Alexander assures him: <em>we are no sin, for how can such love as we share be sin?</em></p><p>Meade nods, accepting the apology. “You ought to sleep more, Hamilton.”</p><p>Hamilton huffs and makes no reply, eyes turned back to his letters. His sleeping, or lack of, is another sore spot to the proud young man.</p><p>As the aides all return to their correspondence, and Laurens retracts his supposition that nothing more will get done, he ponders Meade’s words.<br/>
Ellis being twenty-two? He supposes it could be the truth, but somehow he thought him younger than even twenty.</p><p>Of course, the Captain is not short, perhaps five foot six to Hamilton’s five foot five; shorter than Laurens to be sure, but many excepting the General and Lafayette are.</p><p>It is not Ellis’ height that makes him look young, but he appears a man unable to grow a beard. Granted, Hamilton cannot manage much either, and Laurens prefers to be cleanshaven, his fair colouring lending badly to successful facial hair, but even Hamilton sometimes sports speckled shadow if the time for worrying on appearance is short. Ellis never does, and though some men never do, it makes him look particularly young.</p><p>He is not slight, but neither is he broad, though well-muscled, and he is what some would call <em>delicately featured</em>, or more spitefully, <em>girlishly pretty</em>, as Hamilton jested.</p><p>But even so, that in itself means little, for Laurens suspects he himself, Hamilton and even Major Tallmadge have likely all been called such by some.</p><p>As most of the continental army does not now, Ellis also does not powder, nor does he wear wigs. His natural hair is what Laurens would term golden bronze, a fairly unique colour in itself, but shot through with blond as the sun may bleach, though it is now winter. And it is long, longer than any of the other aides, braided to a length that meets the small of his back.</p><p>His voice is not particularly deep, nor particularly high, but Laurens will grant it does not sound childish in any sense.</p><p>There is just something about him, something playful and youthful that presents happy innocence, though Laurens himself watched his features darken when questioned on his past by Hamilton. Not for the first time, he wonders what the Captain hides behind his impish smiles and mischievous cheer.</p><p>Laurens shakes his head. He is tired, and worrying at subjects that have no need of it, nor any likely conclusion.</p><p>There is a commotion outside the door, and Fitzgerald suddenly bursts in.</p><p>“Fitzgerald!” exclaims Tilghman. “Are you—”</p><p>Fitzgerald waves him off. “The General. He is not here?”</p><p>Meade shakes his head. “He is not, and has not been since noon. I believe he was attending to a meeting with General Lee?”</p><p>Fitzgerald swears under his breath.</p><p>“What is amiss?” demands Tilghman at the same time Hamilton asks, “Is something awry?”</p><p>Fitzgerald seems to deflate. “It is only…Captain Ellis’ scouting group has returned with news of an abandoned farm that housed what could once have been British provisions.”</p><p>“But that is joyous news!” exclaims Meade.</p><p>Laurens regards Fitzgerald critically. “It is, though I suspect that is not all?”</p><p>Fitzgerald winces, glances away. “The group encountered British scouts on their return.” He holds up a hand to forestall their questions. “They were successful in that the British scouts were…dispatched permanently, and no provisions stolen. However, they lost four. Several injured. Mayhap fatally.”</p><p>There is a silence.</p><p>“Shit,” says Hamilton, to no one in particular. No one reprimands him.</p><p>Fitzgerald shifts from foot to foot.</p><p>“Certainly, the General must know all this as soon as possible,” Meade acquiesces.</p><p>“What of Ellis?” asks Laurens, tentatively.</p><p>Fitzgerald’s glance flits to him. “Injured, but not fatally. I sent him to the medical tent.”</p><p>Tilghman has made a decision. “Meade, you ride with Fitzgerald to the General and report this. Hamilton, you stay and finish what is essential to finish by tomorrow morning’s courier, as you have the quickest mind and pen.”</p><p>Hamilton looks pleased at the compliment, but resentful of not being a part of the excitement. Laurens knows he will be equal parts angry and proud if they have occasion to speak privately later.</p><p>“Laurens, you and I shall go and locate Captain Ellis and the other injured, see how they fare, and what they report. Clear?”</p><p>All the aides nod, and scramble for cloaks and hats.</p><p>Laurens quickly finds himself out in the biting chill, snow trying its best to sneak down his collar, nose and cheeks freezing.</p><p>He and Tilghman stumble through the sludge towards the medical tent. It is easily located by the cries of the newly wounded, and the swears of the surgeons.</p><p>Inside, Laurens winces at the smell, the memory of his own stay here after Brandywine. He and Tilghman ask after the scouting group, and learn Captain Ellis has not reported to the medical tent after all.</p><p>“He’s a stubborn bastard,” one of the men helpfully tells them. “Won’t have nothing to do with doctors if he can do it himself.”</p><p>“Damn,” murmurs Tilghman. “We cannot have him with an infected wound simply because he is stubborn, but I must—” He glances at the other injured, and at the door. Laurens knows Tilghman wishes to get the stories of these men, report on those uninjured, and those dead, so that he may record a factual and swift report for the General’s perusal.</p><p>“I’ll attend to Captain Ellis,” Laurens finds himself suggesting. “If his wounds require proper treatment I will force him here; I can convince stubborn pride.” <em>For I myself am like this with injury, and so can perhaps understand and persuade him</em>, is what he doesn’t say.</p><p>Tilghman nods distractedly. “Aye, yes, you attend to Ellis, and I shall—” He has already moved off in haste before his sentence is even complete.</p><p>Laurens sighs and heads back out into the snow, wishing instead he was in his cabin, abed with Hamilton.</p><p><br/>
***</p><p>Unlike Washington’s aides, and the majors and generals, Ellis does not have a cabin to share, however badly made. Instead, like the other captains, lieutenants, ensigns, sergeants, corporals and enlisted men, he has a canvas tent, made as weather tight as a tent can be, which is not very.</p><p>Most other men share, but Ellis’ recent promotion and quarters required closer to headquarters and the aides’ cabins, has meant that for now, he is granted his own.</p><p>It does not take Laurens too long to locate it, upon enquiring among some men nearby, seeing as he has never had reason to visit Ellis’ tent before.</p><p>Laurens supposes he should probably indicate he is outside the tent, as one cannot knock on a tent, but his cleared throat and muttered “Captain Ellis?” receives no acknowledgement, so he pokes his head through the canvas doorway.</p><p>“Captain Ellis?”</p><p>Ellis does not turn around, nor make any indication that he has heard.</p><p>The captain sits with his back to the door. Completely devoid of shirt, vest or coat, Laurens is almost surprised by how muscular Ellis’ back and arms are, seeming at odds with his pretty face. His braid is a mess, strands of long hair straggling over his shoulders, crusted in places with what is probably drying blood. He is breathing relatively quickly, completely focused on what Laurens realises is a needle and thread.</p><p>He is stitching his own wound, rum ready beside him. Presumably to cleanse the wound only, as one has to be sober to stitch, but such <em>pain</em> if one is sober.</p><p>Laurens cannot see the wound from behind, but placement of the needle and shadows on the canvas indicate a left shoulder injury.</p><p>“Surely it is not necessary to administer to your own stitching, Captain Ellis?”</p><p>Ellis freezes completely, shoulders tensing, a small gasp of pain leaving his lips. He does not turn.</p><p>“Lieutenant Colonel Laurens?” Ellis’ voice shakes slightly.</p><p>Laurens takes a wary step forward. “Aye. I was sent to enquire after you when you were listed as injured but did not report to the medical tent. Do you require aid?”</p><p>Ellis shakes his head rapidly. “No, that is quite alright, Sir. It is only a small gash made by a wayward bayonet; not a bullet wound, nor a stab.”</p><p>“Even so.” Laurens takes another step towards Ellis. “Is it difficult to stitch oneself without unnecessary pain.”</p><p>Ellis shakes his head again, movements strangely agitated. “Ah, no, that is—I am practised at attending to my own injuries.”</p><p>“But surely, help—”</p><p>“No, no!” Ellis gasps out, seeming oddly desperate to keep Laurens away. “No, I am perfectly capable, Sir, I am—Ah!”</p><p>Ellis slumps over to the left slightly, a hiss escaping his lips as he caves inwards.</p><p>Laurens places a hand on Ellis’ shoulder tentatively. The man is sweat slicked and freezing at the same time, body wracked with quick, small shivers. “Ellis,” he says softly. “I am happy to help. It does not do well to sit so in this weather.”</p><p>Ellis only slumps forward further. “No, Laurens, I do not—” He whimpers ever so quietly, and his voice drops to a whisper. “I do not require help.”</p><p>“Your shaking limbs belay this, Captain.”</p><p>“Laurens, please,” murmurs Ellis. “I am capable.”</p><p>Laurens removes his hand, and walks round the cot to face Ellis head on.</p><p>Ellis reacts extremely poorly to this. “No!” he cries, and turns away, arms protectively crossing his chest in the shadowed candlelight.</p><p>Laurens spies the wound. True, is it not a stab wound, but it is a deep, wide gash, only about a quarter stitched closed, and bleeding freely.</p><p>“Ellis,” he murmurs, as though to a spooked horse. Even his pride is not this bad. “Please, allow me.”</p><p>Ellis shakes his head, still turned away, arms pressed tight. His eyes dart sideways briefly, and Laurens suddenly realises it is <em>fear</em>, not pride, that befalls Ellis. What could possibly have provoked this?</p><p>Is Ellis afraid of <em>him</em>?</p><p>He reaches out and grabs Ellis’ good shoulder, turning him towards him.</p><p>“No,” mutters Ellis, almost near unconscious, likely from blood loss, shock and cold. He slumps sideways, eyes crashing closed as his head hits the side of the cot, limbs splaying.</p><p>Laurens stares. Stares again.</p><p>
  <em>Good Lord above. This is—shit. This must be some ridiculous jest.</em>
</p><p>Ellis is—Ellis is—<em>A woman</em>.</p><p>No.</p><p>No. This is not—</p><p>Laurens glances back, glances away in shame, cheeks flushing.</p><p>Well.</p><p>Isaac Ellis is not Isaac at all, not if his, her—<em>breasts, dear god</em>—are anything to do with it.</p><p>Not that they are what Laurens would term very large breasts at all, in the limited interaction he has had with such, but certainly it is not a man’s chest.</p><p>It seems all so out of place and wrong. Ellis’ figure is not womanly; his shoulders broader and more muscular, his waist not small enough, his hips not broad enough, his jaw sharp, devoid of any female softness, his voice deeper than would be expected, his presence too commandingly <em>masculine</em>. But—</p><p><em>Lord</em>.</p><p>In any case, he, she, <em>Ellis</em>, is injured, and that must be attended to above all else, so Laurens steels himself, cleans the wound with alcohol, and stitches it closed quickly. He then scrummages around the tent for more medical supplies, and finds clean bandaging to wrap the wound. Then there is nothing to do but hope Ellis awakes soon, and to find the words to confront the clear issue here.</p><p>No wonder the poor Captain avoids the medical tent.</p><p>A woman in the continental army?</p><p>A woman hidden amongst Washington’s staff?</p><p>Do they hang people for this?</p><p>Laurens has no idea what is expected, in such a situation.</p><p>He paces around the small tent, unsure, then covers Ellis with a blanket, so as to prevent him, her, getting any colder, and also to preserve some decency.</p><p>Laurens is pacing back and forth for perhaps the fourth or fifth time since covering Ellis, when the Captain stirs and wakes, eyes shooting open watchfully.</p><p>Laurens glances at him, her, <em>Ellis</em>.</p><p>Ellis looks wary, eyes tight and glinting, mouth hard, and more lucid that Laurens would have expected, but the look of utter fear has faded, perhaps since Laurens has clearly seen and said nothing. He sits up slowly, shifts the blanket over his shoulders so that both his back and chest is shielded from the cold, and from view.</p><p>Ellis winces as the blanket settles over the wound, but says nothing, and makes no cry.</p><p>For a woman, Ellis is more stoic than many soldiers Laurens has encountered.</p><p>Laurens stops pacing as Ellis’ eyes regard him, strained and probing, sparking almost dangerously in the candlelight.</p><p>“You attended to my wound. Thank you.” His voice is hard and cold, the <em>thank you</em> sounding anything but.</p><p>Laurens presses his lips together. “It was no hardship. I myself have never been fond of attending the medical tent.”</p><p>Shall they dance around this all night?</p><p>Ellis inclines his head, pushes a blooded strand of hair from his forehead. “Indeed.”</p><p>Silence falls, and Laurens cannot take the unspoken words, the terrible tension.</p><p>“You are a woman!”</p><p>Ellis’ eyes narrow. He appears to grit his teeth, then take a deep breath.</p><p>“No,” he says, voice icy. “I am a man.” </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This story isn’t related to the “universe” of my current WIP ‘Merited Partiality’ but if you’re a fan of historical Hamilton/Laurens feel free to check that one out &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. An Understanding</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Laurens and Ellis talk at length; Hamilton continues to affect everything Laurens does/thinks/is</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Second chapter/final part. Heads up for internalised homophobia, misunderstanding of trans identity/misgendering, brief discussion of suicidal thoughts, discussion of hanging as punishment, and body dysmorphia. Story continues straight where it left off; I split it more for convenience/length :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Ellis’ eyes narrow. He appears to grit his teeth, then take a deep breath. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“No,” he says, voice icy. “I am a man.”</em>
</p>
<p>Laurens blinks once. Twice. Blushes. “But you—” he waves an awkward hand in the direction of Ellis’ chest. “You have—”</p>
<p>“Breasts,” supplies Ellis, tone oddly and defiantly amused at Laurens embarrassment. “Indeed. It is an unfortunate fact that I am cursed with a woman’s anatomy, yes.”</p>
<p>Laurens cannot understand what he is hearing. What can Ellis be implying? Nothing of this discussion makes any sense, and Laurens wishes himself far from the tent of this accursed Captain.</p>
<p>He flounders. “You…you dress and act the part of a man, for woman are not permitted in the army, so that you may fight?”</p>
<p>“No,” Ellis replies. “I do not <em>act</em> the part. And I am a patriot, but I did not join sorely for want of a fight.”</p>
<p>Laurens frowns, tries to avoid Ellis’ eye. “I am afraid I do not understand. Can you not be hung for impersonation such as this?”</p>
<p>Ellis’ face sharpens into something darker. Suddenly, he <em>does</em> look Hamilton’s elder. “Indeed I could, I am sure, though I impersonate no one, for I <em>am</em> a man. But yes; certainly, I have seen men hang for this.”</p>
<p>Laurens is helpless, out of his depth and afraid; afraid of other men’s secrets, other men’s sins, other men’s poisons and vices, when he holds enough of his own to send him straight to hell, his fate written out over the Bible’s holy pages.</p>
<p>“I do not—I am not—Ellis, how can you be a man?” Laurens throws his hands up. “This seems a simple matter of biology!”</p>
<p>Ellis tenses, eyes cutting so as to dig into Laurens’ soul. “Ah, as a man must love a woman, because of our biology?”</p>
<p>Laurens chokes, feels his face go white.</p>
<p>“Ha.” Ellis shakes his head. “Forgive me, Sir; I am injured and unwell. I know not what I speak.”</p>
<p>Laurens doubts this, but decides it best to let the accusatory words lie. “Yes,” he whispers. For it is true, a man must love a woman.</p>
<p>It is a blackened, burning defect of Laurens' that he seems incapable of such a thing, when any other man finds it easy. Even his Hamilton, though he loves Laurens he assures, can appreciate a beautiful woman as easily as he appreciates a man.</p>
<p>Ellis only shakes his head. “I would be very grateful if you said nothing of this, Laurens, for it is not relevant to my ability to perform my duties competently.”</p>
<p>
  <em>Except when you are injured and forsake the surgeons for fear of discovery. But—</em>
</p>
<p>“I—” Laurens hesitates. “Certainly. I only—”</p>
<p>“Wonder what in God’s name I mean by such claims,” Ellis suggests. “Aye, any such would, Sir. But it is difficult to explain, and most have no interest in listening to such blasphemy as this.”</p>
<p>Laurens thinks on it. Thinks on how difficult it was to explain to Hamilton, to himself, his unholy preferences, how he still cannot entirely accept his inability to feel desire for a woman, how he is desperately escaping the wife he feels no love or lust for, how he fears learning to love the child that has sprung from their ill-advised union.</p>
<p>How most would give him no chance to explain, no chance to listen, before judging him a sodomite and hanging him from a noose, words jeering and cruel.</p>
<p>He thinks:</p>
<p>“I would listen.”</p>
<p>The words are soft, hesitant, vaguely terrified. But true nonetheless.</p>
<p>Ellis regards him carefully, expression softening somewhat. “Aye. I can see you would, Sir.” He glances around the tent, gestures at the bed. “Sit, then, whilst I make myself somewhat decent.”</p>
<p>Laurens sits, legs going from under him like he a puppet with strings cut. His heart is beating wildly.</p>
<p>Ellis now pays him no mind, standing carefully from the bed, wincing as his shoulder stretches. The clean white bandage Laurens used is already slightly speckled with ruby.</p>
<p>He drops the blanket, and Laurens glances away in shame, but Ellis does not seem bothered any longer.</p>
<p>Laurens does not know what this could mean Ellis has guessed about him, that he does not seem to fear Laurens could feel desire when gazing at breasts, something that most men are meant to enjoy.</p>
<p>Or perhaps Ellis truly does not regard his, her, chest, in such a favourable fashion.</p>
<p>Laurens glances up slightly, as Ellis slowly and painfully gathers items in the cold, shivering. He retrieves what appears to be another bandage, though perhaps wider than is usual, and begins to wrap it around his chest until his breasts, already small, are compressed so as to be flat, grimacing each time he must move his shoulder.</p>
<p>Then, like any other soldier, he gently and painfully manages to get his shirt on, but does not even try his vest or coat. Likely, the pain is too much, but Laurens hesitates to offer more assistance.</p>
<p>With Ellis better dressed, any supposition of him being a woman appears lost, and the whole incident begins to take on a bizarre, dream like quality, as Ellis winces and sits back on the bed, facing towards Laurens.</p>
<p>“Ask,” he says, simply.</p>
<p>It is not so simple as that, for Laurens knows not where to begin.</p>
<p>“I do not understand,” is the best he can summon, and even that seems an understatement.</p>
<p>“No,” agrees Ellis. “No, you would not, for whatever struggles you may have endured, you are certain, at least, that you are a man, and others in agreement with this assessment of you.”</p>
<p>Laurens frowns, because whilst his being <em>born</em> a man has never been questioned, his preferences, his very essence, how he loved to assist his mother, how he loved to draw, and paint—</p>
<p>“I have been called womanly,” he whispers, shamefully.</p>
<p>“Hmm.” Ellis makes little assessment of this but to glance at Laurens quickly. “Indeed. But not, I think, a woman.”</p>
<p>“I—no,” Laurens concedes. “My <em>abilities</em> as a man have been—questioned.” It seems awfully humiliating to admit, but at least: “I have never been thought a woman.”</p>
<p>Ellis nods, a sharp, angry gesture. “But of course. For you possess the correct anatomy to make a man.”</p>
<p>Laurens feels himself flush red again, for what feels like the one hundredth time that evening. This is <em>not</em> the sort of conversation he has ever been comfortable with, though he knows many men like to boast of their anatomy’s prowess.</p>
<p>There is nothing but silence for a moment, and then:</p>
<p>“Do you believe,” Ellis murmurs softly, gaze turned away, “That the Lord can make a mistake?”</p>
<p>Ah.</p>
<p>A theology debate, then.</p>
<p>Much more Hamilton’s forte, as he himself has argued Laurens down from many a religious perspective that would make them sinful, using simple reason and logic, and the force of his immense passion and personality.</p>
<p>“I do not know,” Laurens admits. “But I know Hamilton would have an answer for you.”</p>
<p>At that, Captain Ellis smirks a little. “Ah, Hamilton. <em>Le petit lion</em>. I do not believe I have met a more interesting man than your Hamilton.”</p>
<p><em>Your Hamilton</em>.</p>
<p>Laurens elects to ignore this, though he feels this small needling must be addressed soon, before it becomes outright accusation.</p>
<p>Ellis watches him curiously, face half shadowed in the candlelight. “Would he truly have an answer, Sir?”</p>
<p>Laurens considers carefully. “Perhaps not an answer, but for certainty an opinion.”</p>
<p>“And what would it likely be?”</p>
<p>Laurens frowns, presses his lips together. “Hamilton is—he believes in the Lord, certainly, but not necessarily in the infallibility of religious texts, by virtue of their human interpretation. He would say, I think, that if not mistakes, then there must be a reason for all things, for if God creates all things with purpose, then who are we to judge any creation a mistake?”</p>
<p>Ellis seems to digest this a second, then smiles. “Ah, a man after my own heart, then.”</p>
<p>Laurens shifts uncomfortably, and Ellis shoots him a wink. “Not that I be after his.”</p>
<p>Ellis certainly knows of something between them, even if guessed at, but Laurens is still too fearful to face it.</p>
<p>The Captain briefly places a hand against his wounded shoulder, and winces, then straightens. “And you? You share this opinion?”</p>
<p>Laurens hesitates, then nods. Hamilton has argued it so many times, Laurens can hardly refute it any longer.</p>
<p>Ellis seems to breath in, almost as if in preparation to weather a battle. “I am of similar mind, in that if a creation exists then it cannot be, by virtue of its existing at all, a mistake. However—” He pauses for a moment. “If the Lord has made no mistakes, then He knew what He was creating when He placed me on this Earth, and I cannot thank him for it.”</p>
<p>Laurens’ eyes widen at such blasphemy, but he says nothing, instead allowing the silence for Ellis to gather his thoughts.</p>
<p>“If He had seen fit to have me exist in a man’s body, my life should have been far easier. I have been taught that the Lord gifts us our trials, and the most worthy of us, the most difficult.” He glances at Laurens significantly. Laurens shivers. “If this be the case, I should be a saint for my endurance.”</p>
<p>His tone is light, jesting, belying the sacrilege of such a serious statement.</p>
<p>“I do not—” Laurens begins.</p>
<p>“Understand,” finishes Ellis, with a small laugh. “Ah, but I know this. It is a difficult thing to explain, and I have practised such explanation only rarely. Tell me, Sir, when you were a child, you knew you were born a boy, did you not?”</p>
<p>Laurens nods. “Indeed, yes. Though if I had been in any doubt, my Father would have soon seen it off in his steadfast belief of all a man should be, which he imparted on me every day.” His tone is more bitterly revealing than he would like.</p>
<p>Ellis only hums. “I did not know.”</p>
<p>Laurens starts. “Pardon?”</p>
<p>Ellis heaves the blanket back over his shoulders carefully, as a shiver wracks him through his shirt.</p>
<p>“You say you knew yourself to be born a boy. I did not know myself to be born a girl.”</p>
<p>Laurens barely moves, the moment feeling so charged, oddly ethereal, easily shattered. “But you were?”</p>
<p>Ellis blinks. “So said my mother one day. But here, I ought to begin better. Give me but a moment.”</p>
<p>Laurens does so, moving only to settle his legs more comfortably, darkly curious.</p>
<p>Then Ellis coughs, grimaces, licks his lips, eyes darkening with physical pain, but also with what seems some longer remembered hurt, swirling memories of grief.</p>
<p>“You never thought yourself a girl. Neither did I, but the difference being that you were not, and I was.”</p>
<p>Laurens is still, silent.</p>
<p>Ellis continues. “You know me as Isaac Ellis, youngest son of five, as I have explained to Hamilton in your hearing. But I was not born such, unfortunate for me. At my birth I was named Isabel, though I knew not of this for many years, as no one referred to me as more than Iz. Four older brothers I have, and they treated me as a fifth; both at my own insistence, not realising myself incorrect, and for their own humour, as they wished for another brother besides. To them, I was always Iz, and I do not remember my mother or father referring to me as anything else either, excepting <em>petit oiseau, </em>for my mother of French Huguenot descent, and I a child that loved to sing.”</p>
<p>Laurens nods, intrigued, though still confused.</p>
<p>Ellis continues as though he is not there. Perhaps the Captain has longed to speak of this to someone, to hear the words aloud, and it matters not whether it be to Laurens, or another.</p>
<p>“I dressed as a boy, I acted as a boy, for to me I <em>was </em>a boy, never noticing, or perhaps refusing, that certain areas of my anatomy differed to my brothers’. I think they thought it amusing, my supposed misconception, and so they humoured me.”</p>
<p>Here Ellis pauses, runs a shaking hand over his face. “I was ten when my mother informed me that I was too old to continue playing the boy. That I must be Isabel, not Iz, not <em>petit oiseau.</em> When I protested that I did not play—that I <em>was</em> a boy—she told me it was far past time to absolve myself of such ridiculous notions. That I was born into a woman’s body and as such, would now be required to play the part that society required of one with a body such as mine.”</p>
<p>An angry bitterness enters his tone. “That was one of the singular most horrific moments of my life; realizing that who I understood myself to be was not at all how society understood me, was not the part society expected me to play.”</p>
<p>Ellis casts a dryly amused glance at Laurens. “Imagine my shock, to be informed after ten years that I was apparently <em>not</em> the boy I knew myself to be. That I was a girl, that I would be clad in dresses, and shoved into corsets, taught to cook, and clean, and raise children; taught to be a good wife, for apparently women may not make their own way in this world.”</p>
<p>Laurens frowns. “You wished to be a man to protest the restrictions we place on a women’s life and virtue?”</p>
<p>Ellis shakes his head. “No. I see you still misunderstand, as I knew you would.”</p>
<p>“I apologise,” Laurens begins. “I do not—”</p>
<p>Ellis just shakes his head. “Imagine this: my heart, my soul, my mind, my joys, my being, every element of me is a man, but my body cries otherwise. Can you imagine this torment, John Laurens?”</p>
<p>His full Christian name being invoked startles Laurens, alerts him to the absolute seriousness of Ellis’ anguish.</p>
<p>“I cannot imagine,” Laurens whispers.</p>
<p>For, despite his own battles, his own difficulty allowing the conflicting pieces of him to be, he cannot imagine <em>that</em>.</p>
<p>“No,” says Ellis shortly. “I imagine you cannot.”</p>
<p>There is a taut silence.</p>
<p>“I only wonder,” begins Laurens hesitantly.</p>
<p>“Yes?” bites out Ellis.</p>
<p>“Are you alone in this torment?”</p>
<p>Ellis blinks once. Twice. His face looks surprised, then calculating. “No, indeed. I have met others like me, both women trapped in men’s bodies, and men trapped in women’s, such as myself.” He flicks a piercing glance at Laurens. “And many who love those they should not.”</p>
<p>Laurens feels his eyes widen, throat constricting with fear. “Truly?” he manages to croak.</p>
<p>Ellis chuckles. “Yes, Laurens, truly. I think there is much in this world you have not seen.” His expression darkens. “But I am one of the luckier ones stuck in such a position.”</p>
<p>Laurens raises his eyebrows enquiringly, not trusting his voice at present.</p>
<p>Ellis closes his eyes, sorrow written plainly across his face. “I was blessed to be born with a determined temperament; one that would not accept my mother’s assertation of my being a member of the fairer sex, no matter how many times it was forced upon me. There are—there are many who are not so lucky.”</p>
<p>He lets out a short gasp of distress. “They die upon their own vices. Drink, a sword, a musket, a rope. Anything but to wrestle with the despair they see when they look in the mirror each morn and see a face that does not match their soul. And some—”</p>
<p>His eyes open, but they are glazed, unseeing. “Some are hung by those that judge them impure, abominations, sins.”</p>
<p><em>Some are hung</em>.</p>
<p>Laurens stiffens, memories swirling.</p>
<p>
  <em>Men hang for this, Alexander, whether or not they believe themselves in love. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>They hang.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>We could hang.</em>
</p>
<p>Impulsively, Laurens reaches out and touches Ellis’ hand. “I may not understand living in a body that does not match my soul, but I understand this fear.” He pauses. “Of hanging.”</p>
<p>Then he freezes, realising exactly what he has said, exactly what he is admitting to.</p>
<p>He panics. “I only mean—”</p>
<p>Ellis moves his hand and squeezes Laurens’ once, gently, before retreating. “You and your Hamilton. Aye, I know, Laurens. I would not have spoken a word of this to anyone but you or your Hamilton. Men who might sympathise. Men who might understand that fear, of being an illegal, sinful creation.”</p>
<p>“No, no,” says Laurens wildly, “That is not—”</p>
<p>Ellis only watches him sadly, compassionately. “You need not hide from me, Sir. I would think my crime to be even less understood than yours, and even more swiftly condemned.”</p>
<p>Laurens is shivering, yet hot all over. “But I am not—”</p>
<p>“A sodomite?” Ellis says it so pragmatically, no judgment attached. “No, I think not. I know what sodomy is meant to be, a quick fuck because there be no women to satisfy a man’s desire.”</p>
<p>Laurens gapes at the vulgarity, forgets to protest.</p>
<p>Ellis’ smiles tightly. “You and Hamilton, I see the love there, Sir. I see it not a sin, for what sin can exist in love?”</p>
<p>“Hamilton has said much the same,” Laurens manages to whisper.</p>
<p>“Indeed,” murmurs Ellis. “As I said, a man after my own heart.” He glances teasingly at Laurens. “Though I think it be yours he is truly after.” </p>
<p>Laurens feels his cheeks heat, and curses his fair complexion.</p>
<p>“Ah,” huffs Ellis, a jesting smile on his face. “Yes, I see what feelings lie there clear.”</p>
<p>Something in that strikes Laurens with a deadly fear. “You see—? We are that obvious?”</p>
<p>But Ellis shakes his head sharply. “Nay, you are not. I am uniquely positioned to understand and notice such clandestine affairs, but where I see your love, other men see brotherhood, for why should they not? You are known as close friends, honourable men. They see nothing past this, I assure you.”</p>
<p>Laurens latches onto this assurance, hopes it to be entirely true.</p>
<p><em>Thinks of Hamilton’s mouth on his skin, kissing and nipping and</em>—</p>
<p>He coughs. Casts around for another topic. “You say you have four brothers?”</p>
<p>This appears the wrong thing to say, for Ellis’ countenance immediately darkens, eyes shuttering.</p>
<p>“Aye.”</p>
<p>“I do not wish to pry.”</p>
<p>Ellis huffs out a sigh. “It should be a hurt long gone, and yet it remains.”</p>
<p>Laurens winces. “I apologise.”</p>
<p>Ellis shakes his head. “It requires no apology. I still have four brothers as far as I am aware; it is they that has no sister, nor brother in me.”</p>
<p>“You do not see them?”</p>
<p>
  <em>Like I try not to see my Father?</em>
</p>
<p>Ellis’ face twists bitterly. “Nay, I do not. When I were but fifteen, my mother and father arranged an engagement for me.”</p>
<p>His expression shifts into something closed off, undefined. Disgust, perhaps? “I remember it so distinctly, the scratchy feel of my awful dress, the corset trying to make a womanly figure of a girl who had always lacked the best of those virtues. The man—a boy really, no older than me—taking my hand and kissing it. His lips so dry—”</p>
<p>Ellis shivers, gags slightly, glances away. “I see nothing I desire in men.”</p>
<p><em>Unlike me</em>, Laurens thinks, a guilty shiver cracking his conscience. Even now, he can scarcely admit it.</p>
<p>Ellis flashes a look at him. “Ironic, is it not? A man trapped in a woman’s body and yet I could not even make like a sodomite to play my womanly part.”</p>
<p>Laurens says nothing. The ruin and resentment in Ellis’ tone is too thick to puncture with his own words.</p>
<p>And then:</p>
<p>“I tried to end my life, that night,” Ellis admits softly, voice barely louder than a breath.</p>
<p>Laurens remembers a knife glinting on his own bed in Geneva, and later a gun on his cot, Hamilton yelling in fear and heartache:</p>
<p><em>You may never leave me, my Laurens, you may not. Please, promise me no, for if you die, I die too—</em>and the terror that statement invoked.</p>
<p>This despair, he understands.</p>
<p>Ellis laughs coldly. “Even that, I could not accomplish. So I fled, and I became Isaac instead of Isabel. I became myself, but I lost my family, for they would never understand. I am sure my own father would see me hung were he to know, for such would be his opinion of my crime.”</p>
<p>Laurens has wondered whether his Father would do the same. He thinks not, <em>hopes not</em>, but can never be entirely assured.</p>
<p>Laurens pauses a moment, lets the heavy silence sit. Then:</p>
<p>“And what brought you here? To war and Washington’s cause?”</p>
<p>Ellis sighs and places his hand against his wounded shoulder again. There are more specks of fresh blood now, on his shirt.</p>
<p>“I suspect I am here for the same reason as your Hamilton. Though we both of us believe in the patriot cause, and the fight for our own nation’s freedom, we are here to rise through the ranks, make a name for ourselves, and a life after the fight. War is quite singular in that manner; it can raise a man from the basest of stations to the loftiest of heights if he has but honour and courage and the will to wield it.”</p>
<p>“You are not here purely because you believe in the cause?”</p>
<p>Ellis huffs. “No, but I have a long way to rise, beginning with nothing. And you dare not begrudge me for it, Laurens, because your own beloved is the same. Ideologically believing in the cause, aye, but that be not the sole reason Hamilton finds himself here, and you will not refute it.”</p>
<p>Laurens blinks. “I did not mean offence.”</p>
<p>“Hmm,” is all Ellis replies. “I wish to stand amongst good men when this is over, secure in my station, and marry my beloved with a means to support her.”</p>
<p>That surprises Laurens anew. “Your beloved?”</p>
<p>A sweet smile creeps over Ellis’ face, transforming his features completely. “Indeed,” he murmurs. “My beloved Sarah.”</p>
<p>Laurens blinks once. Twice. “You have a woman?”</p>
<p>Ellis’ smile widens. “Aye, I do.” He pauses, frowns deeply. “Her family farms on Long Island, their church stolen for a British Garrison, their crops taken for provisions. They are proud patriots, and they suffer for it. I fight for her, too.”</p>
<p>Laurens still cannot understand this. “But you—a woman?”</p>
<p>Ellis rolls his eyes. “Indeed, Laurens, though I know women to be beyond your ken. We are engaged; wait only for this fight to end, and I to start life as her husband with a name associated alongside great men, and a place to stand in society. Her family like me well enough; would like me still better if I did not stand on nothing. And so, I rise.”</p>
<p>“But does she…” Laurens trails away, too unwilling to cause embarrassment or offence, too polite to pry.</p>
<p>Ellis barks a laugh. “She does, Sir. She knows. My beautiful girl, she is like your Hamilton.” He slides a teasing glance Laurens’ way. “Able to see the beauty and the pleasure of both men and women. She loves me as a man, but though I despise the parts that would mark me not a man, she does not.”</p>
<p>“And you will wed?” Laurens is astounded. “How will a church wed you?”</p>
<p>Ellis only shrugs. “As they all tend to: as man and wife. How are they to know my soul was birthed into the wrong physical body? I shall not be stripping for them to check.”</p>
<p>Laurens feels a tiny chuckle escape him, at that. “I imagine that would shock any Reverend.”</p>
<p>Ellis rolls his eyes. “It would, at that.”</p>
<p>Then his expression falls. “My only regret being that I cannot gift her children.” His voice has gone soft, still. “She assures me it is no matter, but I wonder—” He trails away. “Ah, but that is not a burden for you to bear, Laurens. I shall fall silent on the matter.”</p>
<p>Laurens feels his smile tighten, his eyes sadden. “I am happy for you, Captain. Truly.”</p>
<p>And he is. Though it somehow feels grossly unjust that once such as the Captain can wed his beloved, in a church, accepted by the law and loved by her family, and yet Laurens himself is doomed to watch Hamilton find a wife who will gift him children and love him as the Lord commands, whilst he should search for death in battlefield glory instead, if only to avoid watching his Hamilton forget him as the years pass.</p>
<p>Ellis seems to read some of this on Laurens’ face, to his heavy dismay. He places the hand of his good shoulder softly against Laurens’ knee.</p>
<p>“I am sorry, Laurens, that we live in this time, not the Grecian or Roman, nor any possible future where you might have your Hamilton in this manner. I really am, for it seems cruel you should be so denied your love.”</p>
<p>Laurens can only shake his head, turn from Ellis’ soft gaze, try to blink any wayward tears away.</p>
<p><em>Soft, like a girl</em>, his Father’s voice mocks.</p>
<p>“I have accepted my burden, Captain. There is naught else I can do.”</p>
<p>Ellis hums. “Be that as it may, do not let others’ thoughts corrupt what you know to be true. What you share with him is pure, and good, and I refuse to allow you to think otherwise.”</p>
<p>Laurens breathes in sharp. Whispers <em>thank you</em>.</p>
<p>Ellis withdraws his hand, but the sentiment remains, hanging in the air.</p>
<p>It is really getting late now, Laurens knows, and he ought to assure the injured Captain his secret is safe, thank him for his own discretion, urge him to rest. But one last, almost absurd, question is plaguing him.</p>
<p>“Captain?”</p>
<p>“Hmm?” Ellis looks up. He almost seems to be drifting to sleep.</p>
<p>“You have women’s…anatomy. You cannot provide children in the manner of a man.”</p>
<p>Ellis’ face sharpens. “Aye?” His tone wonders at the direction of the questions, no doubt.</p>
<p>Laurens bites his lip, worries it. “Does that mean that you—” He gestures awkwardly downwards.</p>
<p>Ellis huffs in amusement. “Aye. A carefully shaped stocking <em>just so</em> suits fine. What of it?”</p>
<p>“Do you not…?” Laurens trails away awkwardly, face on fire, wishing he had never begun this line of questioning, regretting everything.</p>
<p>Fortuitously, the Captain is able enough to read the implicit. “Bleed monthly? In the manner of a woman?” he finishes, seeming somewhat amused at poor Laurens’ expense. “I am, with great misfortune, cursed to experience that element of a woman’s anatomy, no matter the true identity of my heart, mind and soul.”</p>
<p>He pauses, eyes shifting to stare at the candle’s dancing flame. “It is one of the worst times, for it reminds me just how much my body does betray me, truly.” A sigh. “Though by luck, the meagre rations we receive at present have starved it away for now, thank the Lord, though I am sure He has naught to do with it.”</p>
<p>Ellis grimaces, then grins slyly. “I would say, though, that since none of the men in our army have ever noticed this awful affliction of mine, that there is little of substance in the argument that a woman’s monthly courses alter her temperaments and abilities critically, for there have been none of you any the wiser to my monthly torments, when they still visited.”  </p>
<p>Laurens does see merit in that statement, and grimaces at the many times he has heard women belittled on account of this. “I would say that to be true, and that there are men amongst us that gripe more than any woman I have met.”</p>
<p>The Captain chuckles heartily. “Aye. All women have my sentiments. No matter how adamantly I protest ever belonging to that sex, I would say it is often the superior of the two.”</p>
<p>Here, though, Ellis shoots a sharp, piercing glance at Laurens, one that says: <em>Listen well to this, and heed. </em></p>
<p>“However, I cannot account for my soul being that of a man; I have found it to be an absolute, unalterable sentiment. I am not a woman, and I would thank you to never again think otherwise, Lieutenant Colonel Laurens.”</p>
<p>The Captain’s tone is hard and unyielding; his use of Laurens’ full title driving the seriousness of his assertion home, as unsubtly as a bayonet might.</p>
<p>Laurens nods solemnly, promises truthfully: “I do not think I could see you as a woman, even were I to try.”</p>
<p>“Do not try.” The Captains eyes are like flint; they burn into Laurens until his own soul is forced to yield to the Captain’s demands.</p>
<p>They seem to say: <em>You will not try, else meet your end. </em></p>
<p>Laurens regards Captain Ellis carefully in the candlelight.</p>
<p>This hard, proud man, who holds himself so well despite injury, cold and starvation, capable of his own agonising stitching. This clever man, who seasons their food and sources their so sorely needed provisions. This determined man, who has fought against every element of life normally taken for granted, lost his family, made his own home and place in the world.</p>
<p>Though Laurens now understands the unfortunate anatomy of the Captain’s birth, regarding the man he knows, the man he sees before him, it seems implausible that he should be anything <em>but </em>a man indeed. Ridiculous, as though heaven truly <em>has </em>made a mistake in bestowing this body upon the Captain, as blasphemous as that be; for a man sits before him, not a woman.</p>
<p>There is no question of it at all.</p>
<p>Laurens rises from the bed, inclines his head at Ellis. “I should think you require rest now, Captain. I am sure the General will wish for a briefing come morn, and the hour grows late.”</p>
<p>Ellis’ hand jerks forward, grabs Laurens’ wrist hard enough to bruise, though Laurens makes effort not to flinch.</p>
<p>“Laurens.” His tone is hard. “Lieutenant Colonel, Sir?”</p>
<p>Laurens knows what guarantee Ellis seeks. “Rest assured, good man,” he murmurs. “This conversation shall never leave these canvas walls.”</p>
<p>Ellis gives him a significant look. “Likewise, Sir.” His eyes flick upwards, sharp.</p>
<p>“Give my regards to Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton.”</p>
<p>He lets Laurens go.</p>
<p>Laurens backs away towards the tent flap, suddenly ice cold. He knows what the Captain implies.</p>
<p>
  <em>You keep my secret, I keep yours. And Hamilton’s.</em>
</p>
<p>For Hamilton, the nature of Ellis’ birth is never leaving his lips.</p>
<p><em>We could hang</em>.</p>
<p>That is true of all three of them, and likely Ellis’ beloved too.</p>
<p>For that, Laurens will take this to his grave.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Hamilton is the only aide seeming still awake when Laurens finally returns to headquarters, stomping mud from his boots and blinking melted snow droplets from his eyelashes.</p>
<p>He glances up as Laurens slumps into the empty chair beside him, pushes his candle closer to Laurens’ face.</p>
<p>“Ah, John. You are finally returned?”</p>
<p>The question is clear. <em>What took so long?</em></p>
<p>Laurens nods tiredly. “Captain Ellis had absconded from the medical tent.”</p>
<p>Hamilton puts down his quill, and shoots Laurens a soft smile. “Like some others I might know.”</p>
<p>“Yes, well.” Laurens huffs. “I assisted him, though he did seem rather capable of attending to his own stitching, were it not so punishingly cold, and the wound having lost less blood.”</p>
<p>Hamilton’s gaze flits to the door, then back to Laurens’ face, his eyes glinting with sheer and true affection.</p>
<p>Laurens feels his face heat up as Hamilton places an ink stained hand on his neck.</p>
<p>“Alexander…”</p>
<p>“There is none here,” Hamilton whispers. “None but you yet returned.”</p>
<p>He leans forward and kisses Laurens softly. Laurens smiles into it. It does not lack passion, but it is more a kiss of comfort and assurance. Of love. He pulls back tenderly.</p>
<p>“Even so, we should retire if you wish to continue in this manner.”</p>
<p>Hamilton smiles roguishly, then pauses, hand drifting to Laurens’ knee. “Is the Captain in fair enough health, then?”</p>
<p>Laurens swallows, nods once tightly. “Indeed. He needs only rest, which he can achieve in his own tent just as well as under the surgeon’s watch.”</p>
<p>Hamilton—<em>his Hamilton</em>—laughs softly. “A stubborn man then.” His smile as his eyes rake Laurens’ face is absurdly fond. “He sounds a man rather like you.”</p>
<p>Laurens blinks once.</p>
<p>Thinks of Captain Ellis’ secrets, of his sins and transgressions, of a life lived under the constant shadow of a swinging rope, creaking in the blood swept breeze.</p>
<p>Captain Ellis <em>is</em> a man rather like him, if one that is braver, and bolder and far more assured of his place amongst God’s virtuous creations.</p>
<p>They both court self-acceptance and love.</p>
<p>They both feel the shadow of hidden guns and a twisted creeping noose.</p>
<p>Laurens feels his heart twist bitterly, but makes sure it shows not at all on his face. He rises slowly, catching Hamilton’s hand so that he too is forced to stand.</p>
<p>“He is a man rather like me, but I prefer a man like you, my Alexander.”</p>
<p>Hamilton’s fiery grin, a true grin, one seldom seen, splits his face. He raises Laurens’ hand to his lips and kisses it gently.</p>
<p>“I hope he recovers well then, for he sounds an interesting man to better acquaint myself with.”</p>
<p>Laurens hums noncommittedly as he and Hamilton leave ink and letters behind, ascending to their shared attic room.</p>
<p>When Hamilton makes one last playful remark on Ellis’ apparent stubborn nature being reminiscent of Laurens’, Laurens only presses his lips together tight.</p>
<p>Thinks on secrets promised and veiled threats.</p>
<p>“He told me to send you his regards.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The End</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Quick health tip: Don’t bind with bandages! Yes, Ellis does here, but this is the 18th century and medical knowledge in general is limited, let alone around issues trans people encounter. Ellis would not even know the term trans, or binding, and is probably doing himself tissue, lung and rib damage. Unfortunately, the knowledge to help him wasn’t there, but it is now, so don’t bind with bandages! There are plenty of ways to do it safely, even if you don’t own a binder: https://www.minus18.org.au/articles/how-to-bind-your-chest-safely-and-healthily</p>
<p>And of course, Captain Ellis is just one trans perspective, and not one much tied to modern experience; every person out there is unique, so don’t assume about anyone’s journey or preferences! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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